


peel the hardwood back

by sawuhs



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Mostly one-sided, Murphy centric, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 08:59:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sawuhs/pseuds/sawuhs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor doesn't bring up any  of this, Murphy knows, because there are things called religion they both believe in because Ma brought them up to, remembers church services on Sundays, and his own eyes watching his brother from the side, his brother watching his, mischievous, at first, then slowly, slowly, knowing, understanding, but Connor still won’t fucking bring it up, say a word of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	peel the hardwood back

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is very much dedicated to Katie, who introduced the two fucking fantastic movies to me and is amazing with me, and Hazel, who really made me write because no one cracks a not-literal whip better than she does.
> 
> alsoitwas4ambythetimeIfinishedthis

Murphy first decides, when he is merely standing as tall as Ma’s hips, that even if Connor would never ever see them in a way more than brothers, he would give his life to Connor regardless of _what_ ; damn them both into the depths of hell. At such an age, you never exactly understand the promises you make to yourself, but, do.

And even though, later, when he’s taller than Ma, but still a scrawny fuck, knows the promise he’s made himself all those years ago wrong, but a promise is a promise will forever remain a promise, and promises that Murphy makes that regards this blood brother so close is something that he _cannot_ break. But it’s also the promises he cannot break that he knows will break him eventually.

It is also at that age that Murphy is the one with teeth gritting and jealous eyes as he watches the girls swoon for Connor and his sweet, sweet words and one-liner from movies _they_ watched together, in the shadows. Ma still tells him to this day, that he had always been the quiet one between the two of them. In the shadows, watching, listening. Waiting for the right time to move.

Except, Murphy has never known when is the right time whenever Connor’s around; his thoughts always like a hurricane at most times like these, tough as fuck to put a finger to, and Murphy’s knitting his brows in frustration, mouth open to say, _but_ , and so there’s fist fights because there just _aren’t_ words he knows right to say his brother.

The words only come, once again, later, when he’s no longer a scrawny boy, only when he’s much older; say twenty-two, only when he’s not with his brother, with other women, so he smiles to himself when he’s walking a step behind Conner just so he can watch Connor’s back, mouths the words he can never bring himself to say, but remembers.

Remembers things like how his not-quite-scrawny self was walking a step behind Connor, when Conner had suddenly stopped and turned, resulting in a messy lips against lips, which led to Connor trying to make it seem something more like a fight, teeth to lips now, and there will be bruises not on necks but from fists to eyes, and _things_ Connor still never brings up even now.

Connor doesn’t bring up any  of this, Murphy knows, because there are things called religion they both believe in because Ma brought them up to, remembers church services on Sundays, and his own eyes watching his brother from the side, his brother watching his, mischievous, at first, then slowly, slowly, knowing, _understanding,_ but Connor still won’t fucking bring it up, say a word of it.

Head strong is what Murphy says, even though the ground is where he wants to be, following after Connor like that; it hurts, but there is a promise and other promises he has made and won’t break, and the other little things like them falling into bed together at night, by each other, even if they’re not touching, but just there. Living and breathing and near each other.

But it is also the little things like that that has the world come crashing down for Murphy; his brother promising back that they’ll always be there for each other, the touches he gets that linger just a second too long, the fucking eyes that understands, the stupid movie quotes that Murphy will never get, and all the little things that make Connor Connor and Murphy unable to hold his head higher.

He’s impressed at how he had kept himself together until he’s twenty-five and drunk as drunk can be on _another_ Saint Patrick’s Day, dancing his way home with Connor in tow who is laughing for him to _wait up, you fucken wanker,_ and Murphy does, laughs more, but only until Connor’s caught up and has an arm slung over Murphy’s shoulder, whispering soft, _Murph,_ that he can’t take it anymore.

The surprising thing is that Connor _lets_ him, and Murphy doesn’t exactly know whether to take this nice and slow or fast and rough, but they’re back in their bedroom now, on one of their beds, but their beds have always been shared someday or another, _but_ Connor is beneath Murphy, and Connor with his sweet words isn’t saying anything now, and Murphy _can’t._

But right now, right _now,_ Connor is kissing back, and Connor finally kissing back alone is enough for Murphy to hang on to every promise he’s tipping toes on, so desperately wanting, _needing,_ to break, for another lifetime, just for Connor, because Connor is kissing back, and if Murphy is ever asked what bliss feels like then he knows just exactly what to say.

Because Connor wanting him back is Murphy needing Connor more than ever, clothes a question if they were even there before, bodies that aren’t but are so, so, _so_ familiar with each other, Murphy with his lips never leaving Connor because _Connor,_ and Connor is kissing back with his arms loose around Murphy’s neck, and Murphy won’t notice that something’s wrong, no, not now.

Not when he’s allowed to trace Connor’s skin with his tongue, and Connor’s sighing so softly the way Murphy has always known but, still, imagined, and _bliss_ is for Murphy, again, when his head is between Connor’s legs and Connor’s clutching his hair tight; Murphy’s mouth wrapped gentle around Connor’s cock, Murphy’s fingers fucking Connor fast.

The first time Murphy brings Connor pleading into a climax is before the first time Murphy pulls Connor onto his lap and guides Connor into riding him, only choosing this position because he, and _maybe_ they, needs, need, their bodies to be flushed closed as their lips and teeth are another mess, wanting, claiming, _loving._

Connor rides Murphy nice and slow with gasps slipping fast between his teeth, calling the forbidden apples named _brother_ and _Murph,_ but keeps moving anyway, the way Murphy moving up into him, the way Murphy grunts back _Connor_ and _brother,_ too, and how, how, _how_ does it turn into something so nasty with Murphy pressing Connor down on his belly and taking him rough.

It’s Connor’s shaky moans after a third, fourth orgasm, and Murphy’s second, that makes Murphy realise what he has been doing, and is saying sorry after sorry after sorry, pressing kisses to bruises made on Connor’s hips and neck, even with his thoughts _still_ like a hurricane, starting to choke on sobs with words begging for Connor not to hate him, to not leave him, to forgive him.

Of course, Connor doesn’t, _cannot_ , leave his brother dear for he has his own promises made, and understandings of his own that he won’t speak of just yet, not when they aren’t meant to be sinners, but will be, two years down the road, even if Murphy has to hold on a little longer, because later, when sins are be true with nothing to hide _,_ everything will be alright and _better_ between them.


End file.
